Staking Claim
by Alamo Girl
Summary: Daryl probably doesn't even know he's doing it. But he's been sending out the signals for a while. Told from three different POVs.
1. Hershel

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make money off nothing. **

**A/N:  
><strong>This is me jumping into TWD fic pool with both feet. I am a confirmed Daryl/Carol lover and this story will be in three parts. Please enjoy this chapter and let me know how I did with the characters! SUPER HUGE THANKS to Shipperwolf and MissMishka for the pom-pom cheering and endless hilarious emails.

This takes place sometime after "Triggerfinger..."

**Staking Claim**

Hershel Greene has been on this Earth a good long while. Seen lots of things.

He's seen wars come and go, the nation caught in one turmoil after the next. Diseases arrive and are thought to be the new plague on humanity, only to be stamped out by the miracle of modern medicine. He's seen the effect of human kindness upon one another. He's seen the weak preyed upon by the strong.

Hershel remembers talking to Rick about such things as miracles and the "circle of life" only to have the younger man scoff in his face. At the time, the old vet thought it was just the nearsightedness of youth.

He knows know that the shortsightedness was his own.

It's one thing to pin your hopes to a pipedream, only to see it evaporate like the morning mist clinging to the pastureland at the first kiss of sunlight. It's another to have it savagely blown apart like the exploding innards of the woman he'd been holding onto when that hot-head's bullets tore through her body. And yet, she kept coming.

Hershel knew then he'd been such a fool. Hope was a corpse, rotting in the sun. God laughs at man's plans.

But since then, Hershel has found some solace in his remaining family, and even in the survivors that so tenuously hold onto the safety of his farm like a lifeline. There is still life around him.

Being a man trained to care for animals, Hershel has learned to read them, to see the signs of distress and know when a gentling hand is needed or if simply backing off entirely is the best course of action. It's not much different with humans, he supposes.

Rick and the others might think him an addled old fool – he has been for so long – but that doesn't mean he doesn't notice things.

He's sees the way Lori shields her nose from the smell of cooking meat, the obvious signs of her pregnancy moving further along. Of how Rick is more hyper aware of his wife's location, how he watches her move across camp. Of how she looks at his best friend.

Shane. The man is a menace. Hershel might not have had to deal with group survival tactics in the word outside his farm, but that doesn't mean he doesn't understand a threat when he sees it. You're only good to the group until you become a threat; until you start putting the group in danger.

Shane's body language screams agitation, aggression and dominance. Hershel sees him stalking across the front lawn, broad shoulders flexed and a little hunched, head down, like he's waiting for an attack and is pissed as hell that someone hasn't tried it yet. It's all in his eyes; the frustration and the anger – like a dog that's been chained for far too long and is just waiting to rip the hand off the first person who tests him.

There's a war for dominance going on between the sheriff and this walking liability he calls a friend and God only knows what the outcome will be. Hershel considers telling Rick to watch his back, but he thinks Rick's a smart enough man to already know that. The triangle between Rick, his wife, and Shane has not gone unnoticed as well and Hershel sees the way Shane looks at the pregnant woman. The love that might have been there in the beginning has soured into obsession, and _that_ is a combustible emotion.

But there are other things happening around Hershel that he isn't quite prepared to see in this new hopeless world. Despite the uncertainty and demoralizing lack of faith, love has sprung up like the crocus that dares to poke its head through the last frosts of winter. And even after having all his assumptions burned to ashes at his feet, Hershel can't help but feel a wonder and envy at the personal connections he's seeing.

Jimmy and Beth, they were sweethearts before the world ended. Afterward, he'd taken the boy in to look after, but really hadn't been prepared to have to chase the spry teens around.

Even more surprising had been his Maggie. Hershel had been wary of the Asian boy – Glenn – at first because he just didn't want his daughter to be hurt when they finally had to move on. Now, he realizes with a lurch of his heart, Maggie may very well decide to leave with this boy.

When he watches them, tangled together with their foreheads bent to touch each other, he knows that this goes far beyond some simple crush he could have hoped for. This was love. And hadn't he taught his girl to "love one another?"

The most puzzling development seems to be forming around the two members of the group Hershel has had the least amount of contact with.

The hunter. Daryl. Hershel noticed him from day one. Not just because he rumbled up the road on that old chopper, a deadly glint in his eye and menace in his very stance, but unlike of all the others, he didn't carry a gun. No, this man carried a crossbow; a tool meant for a true hunter who could track and stalk his prey in absolute silence. There was no brawn or bravado about this man, unless you made direct eye contact with him. Then he'd just stick his chin out, square his shoulders and give the best "fuck off" look Hershel has ever seen.

Because the man didn't talk much, Hershel took to watching him. He kept to himself for the most part, and always, without fail, left every day to search the woods for that lost child. Hershel admired his spirit for that because it seemed this man alone had more conviction that he'd find that girl alive than the whole group put together.

What a comfort that must have been to the child's mother.

Daryl carries himself differently according to who is around him. He generally avoids Lori and the boy, Carl. Toward the men, Daryl stands head high, shoulders back, a slight swagger in his gait meant to project confidence and strength. There is enough of a pissing contest going on between the two head dogs of this group, but Daryl isn't about to show any weakness. Hershel doubts there is much weakness in the boy, especially after he hauled himself back, bleeding and broken but with fire in his eyes after finding that doll.

The man has _attitude_ for _days_, though; strong, coarse words and a harsh tones. But around women... particularly, _one_ woman … all that changes.

Hershel doesn't know how far back this "thing" he sees between Carol and Daryl goes, but whatever it is, it is as profound as it is unexpected.

At first, he just notices the way Daryl's head drops, his shoulders hunch a bit and he seems to soften his stance whenever Carol comes near. His voice changes too; lost is the forced bravado and what's left behind is quiet, almost shy. And the kid never, ever takes his eyes off her when she wanders any distance away.

Hershel doesn't know what drove the man to look for the woman's daughter with such an unshakable defiance, but he suspects it has something to do with all the scars he saw riddling the man's skin while he sewed up a new one.

He's been around long enough to know abuse when he sees it and it goes hand in hand nicely with the behavioral quirks he's seen Daryl exhibit.

After Sophia's death, a rift grew between the two, and Hershel noticed Daryl had his back up at all times again. But he didn't miss the look of longing that flitted across the young man's features when he looked at Carol as she kept her distance while dealing with her grief.

Hershel tends to think of Daryl as a scruffy, world weary ally cat, in such dire need of some affection and so clearly wanting it, but would probably scratch your eyes out if you tried to hold him. And Carol wasn't about to let the stray drift away.

Nowadays, Hershel sees something else forming between the unlikely pair and damned if he can't help but chuckle.

He doubts the younger man even knows what he's doing, but you see, Hershel has seen enough animals bonding to know.

Daryl's staking his claim and subtly making sure that everyone in camp knows that Carol is _his_. His to keep, his to protect and his to provide for…like any good mate.

A smile grows on Hershel's face as he watches Daryl swagger back into camp, dragging the hindquarters of a young buck he's felled and field dressed. He nods toward Rick, but it's straight to Carol he goes and plunks the venison down on the table where Carol has been darning socks.

There's an impish smile threatening the man's features when he startles her and she gives him a look of mock contempt before smiling at the trophy her hunter has brought before her. Daryl waits a moment while Carol admires his kill, seeking her approval of sorts and once it's given, with a duck of the head, he ambles back the way he came to retrieve the rest of his prize from the tree line.

Carol always seems to be careful to stay in Daryl's sight line these days. But when she wanders, oh, that's when the boy tips his hand.

* * *

><p>Hershel takes to the machine shed early one morning, trying to coax some more life out of the ancient generator. Dale, Rick, Shane and Andrea are on the porch, arguing about something or other and Daryl has just come back from a pre-dawn hunt. He stands at the porch for a few moments while Rick asks his opinion on something, much to Shane's dismay, Hershel notes.<p>

Daryl shifts his feet a bit, probably uncomfortable with the new found faith the sheriff has shown in him and considers his words before saying his piece. This seems to satisfy Rick, to Shane's chagrin. If anything, Daryl seems to be one who always says what he means and means what he says and Hershel admires that trait. The hunter fades out of the ensuing conversation to cast a glance around the farm yard, eyes scanning the make-shift camp area.

Hershel follows his gaze and his suspicions are correct – one person is conspicuously missing from the hustle of morning chores.

He watches Daryl amble off the porch, his long stride betraying nothing but Hershel can see a twitch in his cheek as he passes the tents and doesn't see who he's looking for. Bounding into the RV, Daryl disappears for only a moment, before popping back out again and adjusting the strap on his crossbow as an excuse to quiet fidgety hands.

Standing there for a moment, Daryl squints into the sun, before turning and hailing Dale atop the RV. Hershel can't hear the words, but he sees Dale shake his head and nervously scan the area. Daryl tenses and turns from the old man in a huff, his stance more stalking now than casual, betraying his feelings even more.

Carol's wandered off and no one seems to know where. Hershel takes a moment to think if he even saw the woman's direction, too. He thinks he saw her folding the wash earlier, but beyond that…

"Hey."

Hershel looks up and into the steely squint of the hunter he'd been observing.

"You seen Carol?" Daryl asks gruffly, looking up at Hershel from beneath sweaty strands of hair.

"No," the older man replies. He looks toward the water pump and nods. "Last I saw she was washing her hands over there, but that was over an hour ago."

Hershel watches the younger man chew his lip in a fit of nervous frustration, worry creeping into the lines around his eyes. Daryl looks off at the water pump house nearby and snorts.

"Damnit. Bunch of useless old farts standing around with their thumbs up their asses instead of keeping watch."

Hershel isn't sure if that barb is directed at him or at Dale, but he imagines it's a bit of both.

The more agitated Daryl gets, the more he moves around, pacing back and forth with one shoulder cocked upward under the weight of the bow.

"How hard is it to see a grown woman walk away from camp? Is she fucking invisible to you people?" He throws his arms out wide.

Hershel winces at the language. "Calm down, son."

Wrong words to use.

"Don't you be telling me to calm down. You with your head so far up your own ass lately it's a wonder you can even see daylight, old man," Daryl growls.

Hershel puts his hands up in a pacifying gesture, but he's smart enough to give the worked-up hunter a wide birth.

"Maybe she just went off to relieve herself."

Daryl's already walking over to the pump station.

"Yeah, and maybe Rick and Shane'll start singin' show tunes."

Hershel looks over to see Dale has climbed down from the RV and has apparently informed the rest of the group that one of their own is lost, for Rick is trotting their way with the rest fanning out behind them.

Daryl's scanning the ground, looking for the soft-soled imprint of Carol's sneakers in the dirt leading away from the pump, clearly planning on tracking the object of his worry down.

"Daryl!" Rick comes to stand next to Hershel. "C'mon, man. She can't be far. Let's not go running off in all directions-"

Daryl turns on him, shoulders back and square and a snarl on his lip. "You didn't even notice she was gone, man. Gone an hour at that."

"Look, let's just figure out a plan of action so we're not-"

Daryl swings that nasty-looking crossbow off his shoulder in one terrifyingly fluid action and brings the hock to his shoulder. Hershel decides right there that he never wants to be on the wrong side of Daryl Dixon's anger. With the exception of maybe Shane, this young man wields some truly intimidating fury.

"Yeah, well, fuck you _and_ your plans, Rick. They turned out so well the _last_ time."

The force of his words drives Rick back a step and Lori places a steadying hand on her husband's shoulder.

"_I'll_ find her," Daryl says, holding the bow aloft with finality.

Rick's just about to say something else and Daryl is giving him one last contemptible, "fucking try it and see what happens" look when something in the brush beyond the tree line rustles. Everyone goes tense, hands start reaching for pistols.

Carol ducks from beneath the sweetgum and pine boughs, the tail of her shirt grasped in her hands in a makeshift basket. Inside it, Hershel can see why she'd wandered off and he eyes Daryl for the reaction he knows is coming. He almost pities the poor woman for the good tongue-lashing she's about to get…

Carol startles when she looks up, all doe-eyed and halts at the audience. Daryl is striding up into her face in an instant.

"Where you been?"

His tone is harsher than probably intended but Hershel saw the millisecond before Carol looked up when Daryl's body eased in relief. It was so minute one might miss it, but Hershel even heard Daryl breath out a shaky sigh before gearing up to let what was _his_ know he didn't like her out of sight.

Carol frowns, nearly stepping back from Daryl's accusatory tone.

"What do you mean? Has something happened?" She looks to Rick and the others, who are putting their guns away, shaking their heads and turning to leave.

Hershel slides back up under the lean-to, but still keeps an eye on the couple.

Daryl slings his bow back over his shoulder and gestures at her.

"All this time, after everything that's happened and you ain't smart enough to tell someone where you're goin' first?"

"I wasn't far," she defends, nodding to her prize tucked into her shirt tails. "The dewberries are out. Thought I'd get them before the birds did."

Daryl looks at her for a moment, then at the berries and deflates a little.

He shakes his head, muttering a curse under his breath.

"Hell. Learn to speak up, next time."

Carol cocks her head, watching her hunter with interest. Hershel can tell that she sees the worry in Daryl's demeanor is because of her. A smile pulls at her lips but she won't let it break free. Best not to mock the man's concern or even point it out. Daryl's not one to hold up signs about his feelings.

It's fascinating to Hershel how well this woman reads this man even when he's closed off behind bluster and anger. She's a soft touch, lets him come to her when he's of a mind to. Best way to deal with unpredictable and potentially dangerous things, really.

Carol nods a little, says "sorry" softly, but that smile is still there in the corner of her mouth. Daryl's shoulders droop somewhat, he dips his head and his gaze flits around before he boldly reaches out and snags a couple of berries. He pops them into his mouth as he moves aside and Carol gives in and grins fully now. It's a true and genuine smile as the two of them walk past the lean-to.

Daryl lets his charge lead the way, him taking up a place just behind Carol's right shoulder. One hand hovers near the small of her back, like he's shepherding her back to the safety of the flock and it's all Hershel can do not to smile.

He manages to swallow said grin when the hunter turns and cuts his eyes at him as they pass and he half expects Daryl to tell him exactly where he can _stick_ his mirth. But Hershel just nods a little and to his surprise, Daryl returns it with a slight jerk of the chin. An acknowledgement of sorts.

Daryl's taking his new job very seriously and Hershel has seen how devoted he is to a task set before him. The hunter and protector in him obviously can't be separated.

The younger man thinks he's being subtle about this, however. He'd likely say he had nothing better to do than to look after the widow. That he's got nothing for the soft looks of gratitude and pride she sends him, or how those looks seem to make him hold his head a little higher.

It's a quiet thing, this bond. Easily missed by most.

But Hershel gets it.

**TBC... Next: Carol POV  
><strong>

* * *

><p>READ and REVIEW!<p> 


	2. Carol

**Disclaimer:  
><strong>See previous chapter

**Author Note**: I am utterly floored with the wonderful response to this little story. I hope this chapter lives up to expectations, because I plan on being thoroughly distracted after this week's new episode. All the love to **Shipperwolf** for her cheerleading. Plus she comes up with the BEST scenarios EVAH!

**Carol**

Carol's been around long enough to pick up a few things.

She knows when to speak her mind and when to stay quiet. That lesson was beaten into her from the day she said "I do" to that worthless waste of space, Ed. Why she stayed with him so long, she'll never know. Perhaps it was because some part of her hoped he'd change; that he'd see what he was doing and feel remorse.

Maybe it was just because she didn't have anywhere else to go.

But Carol learned enough to know when Ed was at his most volatile and when she was safe enough to speak up on Sophia's behalf. She'd take every beating in the world until she couldn't even speak if it kept his hands away from her little girl.

With Ed gone, Carol doesn't have to watch her back as much, save for the omnipresent threat of walkers. It affords her some time to study the people in this rag-tag little group.

Carol feels for Dale, she really does. The man's attachment to Andrea probably goes deeper than just fatherly concern, but it's hard to see his care brushed aside in favor of Andrea's new hero.

Carol can't really blame Andrea her new interest in Shane. In the beginning, Carol felt the same air of safety around him. Shane was the alpha of the group, the one everyone looked to whether they wanted to or not. Shane even made Ed back down more than once, before that vicious display at the quarry. But now, the sheriff's best friend is pushing too many envelopes and damning the consequences that hit the fan later.

Thinking back, Carol is ashamed at the way she ran to Ed's bleeding form, trying to protect him when not long after, she was praying for his demise after his lascivious eyes roamed her daughter. Coming to his aid was just what she knew. What she was supposed to do.

Just like now, she knows that laundry and cooking and tending the men's shirts is what she's supposed to do.

Carol likes doing for others. Makes her feel useful. Needed.

She wonders what it will be like with an infant in the group, the need for new life to revitalize the group warring with the knowledge that the tiny thing will probably put them all in more danger. Not to mention the mother's fear in her to have to see something so little and helpless placed in the constant danger each of them lives with just simply getting up every morning.

No child deserves this life. Carol glances over at Carl, scribbling in his notebook and sighs. He and Sophia were such good friends.

Carol looks back down to the snap peas in her bowl and continues to shell them, forcing her thoughts away from her late daughter. It doesn't do to dwell.

A cool gust of wind rustles through the old oak that shades much of their little camp area and Carol lifts her head and closes her eyes. For a moment, the serenity of the farm lulls her and it's nice to just feel the breeze on her face, hear the leaves shuddering above. Fall is coming and soon, there will be frost on the ground.

Carol loves the fall. The changing of the leaves, the cool snap to the air in the mornings that breaks the suffocating heat of summer.

She opens her eyes when she hears the sound of heavy boots moving across the yard and she knows before she even looks that they belong to Daryl. Odd that she can pick his gait out before he's even in sight.

She snaps a few more hulls before looking over, finding Daryl striding across the yard from the front porch. He looks to his right and then to his left, a quick scan of the grounds before his eagle eyes light on her.

Carol won't let herself dwell on the small chill that always thrills her spine when he dares to make full eye contact with her, those cool blue eyes gauging her. It was Daryl's eyes and his voice that undid her that day with the Cherokee rose. Gone was the steel attitude and the pent-up anger. He allowed her to _see_ him that day, soft eyes and voice pleading with her to keep her faith, not just for herself but for _his_ sake as well.

Saving Sophia was, in a since, saving Daryl too, and more than once Carol has wished she could go back in time and just muster up the will to go stand at her daughter's grave at his request. She wonders where their relationship would be by now if not for the set-back her reaction caused.

Carol realizes she's been staring when suddenly, Daryl's right next to her at the picnic table. He rubs his hands on his pants, watching her expectantly.

Another thing Carol has noticed is that she and Daryl often have this unspoken thing going on, simple looks that convey messages. All Daryl need do is catch her eye and incline his head and she's off and following him. She wonders what that means that she so willingly follows this man's lead.

Trust, she supposes.

Daryl must think she had something to say by her prolonged stare from before and Carol smirks at the blush she knows is coloring her cheeks now.

While her mind frantically searches for something to say, a tanned hand sneaks into her field of vision as she stares at the metal bowl in her hands. He plucks a bean out and she watches him take a bite. He seems to be shifting his weight, clearly intent on letting the food pilfering become the extent of their interaction for the moment and he's about to move off.

"I was thinking," she starts, reaching into the bowl to snap another pea, causing Daryl to cease his fidgeting, "everyone sure enjoyed those dewberries from the other day."

Daryl squints at her a little, she sees that little tick his eye makes when he's trying to figure something out, or he's a little embarrassed. Carol remembers the anger and concern in his voice when she arrived back in camp the last time she went berry picking, nearly causing her to skirt away from him.

But she also knows that since that day, any time she's gone toward that water pump, Daryl stops what he's doing to watch her closely, even going so far as to head her way as though she might bound off into the underbrush like a wayward deer.

When he doesn't answer her, Carol continues.

"There may still be some bushes that the birds haven't cleaned off yet. Might be nice to get one last harvest in and preserve them for winter."

Daryl scratches at his neck a little. "All the bushes near here were picked clean, last I saw."

"I was thinking there might be some still bearing fruit closer to the creek side," she offers.

At that, Daryl frowns.

"You wandered all the way to the _creek_?"

There's a warning in his tone now, but Carol's not afraid. She knows this man, has seen what he's capable of. And even in that dark time after her daughter's death, even though she'd been willing to let him put his fist to her if it helped him get through is emotions, she knows he's better than the sum of his upbringing.

Daryl stopped… he _stopped_ that night and that means more to Carol than any broken promise or pathetic apology Ed ever made after he'd made her bleed.

Daryl is redeemable. Ed wasn't.

Besides, nowadays, any attitude he throws her way is usually born of frustrated concern that he neither knows how to express nor deal with.

"No," Carol says firmly and she doesn't miss the way his jaw eases that tensing pulse. "But I figure it's as good a place as any to look."

She puts the bowl of snap peas down and boldly stands up, right in Daryl's space. It makes something in her titter in nervous glee at the way his eyes roam her features for a moment, eyeing their proximity like he doesn't know whether he's going to chicken out and step back, or stand firm.

Carol congratulates herself for not being the one to back up, and she's curious to see where this little show of body language will take them before Daryl breaks it by shifting his footing until he's side-facing her. It's a tell. A small one, but there nonetheless.

"I'll get a basket from Maggie," Carol says finally.

Daryl's still eyeing her when she moves to pass him, but his hand on her elbow pulls her up short. It's a shock to her system. This is the first time he's made to touch her since… since that day in front of the barn…

"What, you mean, go _now_?" he asks

"Why not?"

Daryl looks down at his hand on her arm and lets go a little hastily. Still a skittish thing, really.

He eyes the sky. "Got only about half a day of sunlight left. Creek's a good ways off."

"I'll get a couple of canteens. It's such a nice day, we should make good time."

Carol smiles when Daryl averts his gaze to the ground, before looking off toward the trail past the water pump. Chewing his lip, he finally nods consent and Carol has a new spring in her step as she hops the front porch steps to retrieve her supplies.

* * *

><p>Carol finds herself staring at the faded angel wings stitched into the cracked black leather of Daryl's vest as they move along the trail. When she'd returned with a small backpack of plastic bags for the berries, water and some jerky, Daryl had been waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, crossbow propped on one knee and his leather vest on over his jeans jacket.<p>

She's noticed the jeans jacket came out with the nip in the air, and part of her wishes she'd grabbed something more than her cardigan.

As she follows behind him, Carol finds herself a little mesmerized by the way those wings shift and move with the muscle underneath, while that wicked crossbow bumps gently along with this stride. She'd never noticed the wings on his vest before and wonders what they mean.

Daryl Dixon, avenging angel.

Carol covers her mouth to hide the chuckle. But she isn't fast enough to evade the sharp ears of her hunter.

Daryl pauses and looks over his shoulder. His eyes are questioning, but Carol just smiles and shakes her head. He nods at her to pass him, while he takes up the rear and since the trail is well worn, Carol has no problem taking the lead.

Daryl readjusts the crossbow strap and follows in step behind her, close enough she can hear his breathing. Part of her wants to strike up a conversation, something trivial like the weather, but part of her enjoys that they can spend time in comfortable silence together.

The sun is starting throw long shadows between the trees by the time Carol can hear water gurgling in the creek. Sure enough, a stand of dewberry bushes greets them as they round a boulder, still heavy with fresh fruit.

Carol smiles at Daryl as if to say, "See? This was a good idea" and she's rewarded with a chuff of agreement and a slight smirk.

When Daryl swings his crossbow off his shoulder and casually loads a bolt, Carol doesn't ask if he'll help her with the picking. He's setting up to keep watch, always at the ready, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees him start to make a slow circuit around the stand of bushes while she works.

Bent over at the waist, head down and arms gingerly maneuvering around the thick thorns of the dewberry vines, Carol knows it was a good thing to have someone watching her back. Her field of view is consumed by the brambles and briars concealing their juicy prizes, so she isn't sure where Daryl is right now, only that he's close.

Carol's carefully threading her arm through a hole in the briars to get at a few fat berries when she hears a twig snap. She freezes; for the moment hearing only the cheerful bubbling of the creek behind her.

Perhaps it was Daryl.

Then, another rustle of leaves underfoot, followed by a throaty rumbling growl.

"Daryl?"

Carol's still frozen, bent into the bushes that surround her and she yanks her arm back, tearing her skin on the thorns.

"Shh…"

Daryl's behind her now, hushing her, bringing the crossbow up beside her shoulder and Carol straightens just enough to see over the bushes. A feral hiss echoes over the glen and her first thought is: walker.

She's stunned when she catches sight of a large tawny body slinking around a tree, coming to face them with canines bared.

Carol's heard about the cougars in this area, but she never believed she'd see one in person. This one is a big male, but his coat is mangy and his ribs are poking through is hide. He looks like he hasn't seen a decent meal in a month of Sundays, which is probably why he's eyeing the two of them with a mad gleam.

Carol realizes the cat is plenty close enough to pounce and apparently so does Daryl. She feels his free hand close on her shoulder in an almost painful grip.

"When I say - _you_ _drop_. Got it?" He whispers, low and deadly.

The cat is gathering his weight back on his haunches, coiling his strength for the strike and the rumble coming from the animal is getting louder, like an engine revving.

Carol can barely nod as fear seizes her. The primal terror within all humans of becoming something's dinner surges her system with adrenalin and she wants to bolt terribly. But Daryl's big hand holds her still and running would only ignite the cat's "give chase" instinct.

She hears his finger on the trigger, feels the tension and tremor in his hand as the cat wiggles his hind quarters as he gauges the jumping distance to his prey. Carol chokes on the scream in her throat as she is suddenly, violently shoved into the briar patch, just as she sees a tawny blur lung toward them.

Her shoulder takes the brunt of the thorny vines, but some of them are almost an inch long and they pierce her clothes easily. Carol hears a blood curdling scream that almost sound human, and she answers it by screaming out her protector's name.

"Daryl!"

She's caught by the thorns and the vines, and Carol fights against them trying to get up. Trying to see what's become of Daryl and she's terrified. All she hears is a few grunts and some scuffling, but he doesn't answer and now she's wailing his name while she cuts her hands and arms on the tiny bed of knives she's lying in.

There is no way Daryl Dixon gets taken out by a cougar. Not in this world. Out of all of them, Daryl is the one who will probably survive this hell on Earth to a ripe old age.

Carol just got him back. She's not about to lose him now.

"Daryl! Where are you?" She can't for the life of her get her feet under her. The vines seem to be reaching out to ensnare her. Holding her down. Keeping her from seeing if Daryl is all right.

She's crying now, sobbing and cursing at the world. Then a large hand reaches down, grasps her arm and yanks her hard out of the berry thorns.

Carol whimpers against the vines being ripped off her person, but then she's standing there, face to face with a sweaty, panting and very scared Daryl Dixon.

"You okay?" he asks.

He's holding her at arm's length, then his hands are hovering over the scratches marring her face. His eyes are pained when he sees the blood seeping through her cardigan on her arms. Carol chokes out a sob of joy, sees the carcass of the cougar lying a few feet away, an arrow sunk into its chest.

"Damn," Daryl breaths. "You're cut to pieces, woman."

Carol doesn't care about the cuts that sting like acid or the thorns that she can feel riddling her back and arms. She just presses her body into Daryl's and clutches his waist. He tenses immediately and she knows he'll likely push her away, but for the moment, she doesn't give a damn. For just a moment, she needs to hear his heart beating, know he's alive and whole.

Daryl's arms come around her shoulders tentatively for only a moment before he's pulling her back to get a look at her.

"I'm okay," Carol assures him, rocked by the fear in his eyes. "I'm okay, really. Just a few scratches."

"Sorry," Daryl says and Carol just looks at him dumbly. He nods to the bushes. "It was the safest place I could think of at the time."

Carol wants to laugh so hard she could weep. He saves her life and he's worried about a few scratches.

"C'mon," he urges, checking the sky. "It'll be dark soon. We need to make camp for the night and get those cuts on you cleaned. Don't need anything else around here smelling fresh blood."

* * *

><p>Carol scoots closer to the little fire Daryl made, nibbling in the jerky she'd brought with them. It was safer to wait out the night in place and head back in the morning. She's got a small flashlight out, trying to pick the thorns out of her forearms and waiting for Daryl to return with water from the creek so she can properly clean her scrapes.<p>

She hears him approaching and looks up from her work to see Daryl place the canteen near her.

"Don't drink it," he says. "Ain't sterile, but it'll do for cleaning wounds."

"Thank you," Carol says and smiles.

Daryl gives her a quick nod and ducks his head.

She wets a rag in the water and starts to rinse the blood and filth from her arms and hands, wincing as the cuts in hands and fingers reopen. Carol jerks somewhat when Daryl drops down in front of her and takes the rag.

They're knee to knee and Carol stares up at his form, back-lit by the glow of the fire behind him.

"Here," he says softly, his voice somehow warm and unsure at the same time. "I can do it."

Carol watches, entranced as Daryl holds her hand in his and wipes the blood from her fingers. She's never seen him display such physical gentleness and it's both thrilling and frightening at once. Unlike Shane's ministrations at the water pump that horrible day, Daryl is utterly silent, intent on cleaning every last speck of red marring her skin.

When she chances a look up into his face, she finds him glaring at her hands as though every thorn and cut has affronted him. His bottom lip is being worried in his teeth and she's shocked that when he turns her arms over to examine her wrists, his hand trembles a little.

Carol suddenly doesn't know what to do, torn between wanting more and being afraid to try, but she knows it's taking a lot for Daryl to show this side of himself.

It's over too soon, as Daryl releases her hands somewhat slowly and scoots back to check his work.

"Nothing too deep," He says, voice gravely and hoarse. "You were lucky."

Carol boldly searches his eyes and smiles. "Because of you."

That compliment causes a new bout of lip-chewing and Daryl's gazes skitters away from her before he stands and moves to sit behind her. Carol sighs, because she knows she might be pushing him, but he needs to know he's appreciated. That his bravery and quick thinking are most definitely needed. He's going to have to learn to take a compliment at some point…

She shifts and winces as the cuts along her back pull and sting. She can't see where they are, much less tend to them, but Daryl notices her discomfort.

He heaves a sigh, as though the whole thing thoroughly puts him out and says, "Lemme see."

Before Carol knows it, Daryl's helping her out of her cardigan, down to her sleeveless shirt. Then she feels him hesitate, all of his resolve fizzling out and she senses his hands hovering over her back.

Gingerly, Carol lifts the back of her shirt up and over her shoulders, careful to keep the front down for decency's sake. Turning her head, she can see Daryl swallowing thickly, before he gives his head a good shake and reaches for the canteen.

The cool rag on the cuts stings like hell, and Carol hisses and flinches at the first touch. Daryl balks at her reaction, as though she's stung him too.

"It's okay. You're doing fine," she soothes. It makes her smile to think that while he's doing his damnedest to try to tend to her, she's the one uttering gentling tones.

With efficiency and awing gentleness, Daryl cleans her back before taking the flashlight in hand and goes about picking the larger thorns out of her wounds. He's right up behind her, bent over her prone form and breathing softly on her neck while he works and Carol closes her eyes and focuses on her own breathing.

Every time she shudders under his touch, Daryl's hand wavers, his breathing becomes a little erratic, only settling down after she nods for him to continue.

It's surreal to be tended to by a man with such a vicious streak, but this is the side Carol has been waiting to see again. Hoping she'd be able to reach out and draw this piece of him back out into the sunlight so it could flourish.

Strong, calloused hands smooth her shirt down and come to rest on her shoulders before Daryl utters a quiet, "Think I got'em all."

Carol sits up. A little further she could lean against his chest.

"Thank you. You're pretty good at this thing, y'know." She turns to look at him over her shoulder and clarifies. "This doctoring thing."

Daryl's hands run a soft course down her arms, before he pulls back and Carol misses their warmth immediately.

"Done my share of patching cuts," he says, eyes flitting from hers to the ground and back. "Hershel'll need to get a look at you tomorrow."

Carol wishes for daylight to better see his features, half hidden by the shadow and firelight, but she'd be willing to bet there is a smattering of pink coloring his neck and ears.

A chill courses through her when the wind picks up through their little camp site, making the fire dance and hiss in protest. Daryl sees her shudder and is pulling out of his jeans jacket and vest before she can protest.

He scoots even closer, wrapping the garment around her shoulders, his arms coming around her to pull the jacket closed in front. Carol releases a shaky breath when his arms linger around her in a half-embrace of sorts, and she wonders if he can hear her heart thudding in her chest.

Somewhere, an owl calls out mournfully and the spell is broken. Daryl makes a little noise in the back of his throat and moves away to tend the fire.

"Best get some sleep."

Carol swallows her disappointment, chastises herself for even being disappointed in the _first_ place, before choosing a spot to curl up. She uses the backpack as a pillow and curls deeper into Daryl's jacket. It smells of earth and sweat and everything definable as "male" and it soothes her more than anything.

She settles, but keeps her eyes trained on her hunter as he stokes the fire a little. The light bounces off his features, setting them ablaze in orange-red hues and it's rather beautiful.

Daryl catches her stare and sighs. Perhaps he mistook her look for one of worry because he leans toward her, quiet and unwavering.

"Don't worry. I'll keep watch," he rasps.

And at that, Carol's body relaxes despite the aches and pains of their adventure. Beyond the safety of the firelight, things might go bump in the night. Daryl shifts the crossbow close to his thigh; at the ready should he need it.

Carol knows she need not worry. Daryl is keeping watch…

Like always.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC: Part 3: Daryl<strong>

**DON'T FORGET TO READ AND REVIEW!  
><strong>


	3. Daryl

**See beginning of story for disclaimer**

**Okay I have no excuse except the massive MASSIVE writer's block I've had with this fandom. So here is the final chapter for this story and I hope it lives up to expectations. Remember: this story was started in the middle of Season 2, so these characters were a lot different then than they are now. Which is one reason it was so hard to write. **

**Enjoy!**

**Daryl**

He knows the old adage "life is what you make of it" has got to be true. Otherwise, Daryl wouldn't be as suited to living in this shit-stained world as he is. Not that he's gonna thank his useless daddy or even Merle for giving him the training. No sir.

Some people adapt to this world and some people were already made for it. Daryl knows he falls into the latter category.

A breeze shifts the old oak leaves overhead as the steady gurgle of the creek plays a lullaby that would tempt most into a fitful sleep. But the hunter in him knows that nighttime is when prey is up and about, which means the killers are on the prowl too.

He takes out a fresh rag and sets to work cleaning his bolts. Blood, brain matter, or whatever on the shaft and it could gum up the workings. A misfire could mean death. Plus it gives him something to do that doesn't involve staring at the peaceful, slack face of the woman he's unexpectedly become attached to.

Daryl huffs when he realizes he's just thought of himself as "attached" to Carol and curls in on himself, hunches his shoulders and scrubs a little harder at the shaft of his bolt.

_Attached_. Whatever. Can't get too attached to anything these days. Don't do no good thinking too far ahead because today may be all you got. Only person you can totally rely on is yourself.

And yet, the group has managed to make a home of sorts on the old man's farm. Daryl will admit he didn't think it was worth their time to try to convince the old coot when he seemed so damned ready to kick them to the curb before. But he knows now that Rick's constant battle to talk Hershel into letting them stay was the best for everyone.

The kid – Carl – he needed some stability. Although with all the shit Shane has been starting because of his mom, fuck knows how the kid is gonna deal. Daryl has a patented approach when it comes to parents fighting; get the fuck out of the way.

And Rick… he's alright. He's got an air of leadership about him that Daryl can get behind. And he's level headed, which is a shit-ton more than anyone could say about Shane. That fucker is gonna end up on the wrong end of one of Daryl's bolts one day if Shane gets in his face again.

Daryl can feel his teeth grinding and makes a conscious effort to relax. He scans the area again, stokes the fire a little for more light, but not enough to draw attention. It's quiet save for the few crickets and night birds. Almost peaceful.

A soft dove-like sound comes from next to him, and Daryl jerks his attention to the form on the ground. Carol shifts in his jacket, seeming to burrow deeper into his faded denim and leather, as she breaths out another soft sigh.

Daryl thinks about how her body heat will warm that battered old jacket, how he'll probably be able to smell her in it for days and suddenly his skin feels stretched a little too tight, and his muscles twitch. He covers by standing and stretching his legs – he needs to do a perimeter check anyway, dammit.

Silently he moves to the edge of the firelight, crossbow loaded and cocked, scanning the bleak darkness beyond. Walkers generally aren't quiet as they shamble over branches and brambles so there is a little bit of warning for those who are vigilant.

As he walks around behind the old stump Carol is using as a makeshift prop for her backpack pillow, Daryl glances down at her. The firelight dances over her features, so much sharper now than when he first met her outside Atlanta. Time and hardship has given her a careworn look, but he's always secretly liked that about her.

Nothing fancy or fake. Her short cropped hair makes her easy to spot and she doesn't have to fool with it in the heat like he's seen Lori and Andrea arguing with their longer manes. Eyes storm-cloud blue and all-too understanding.

Sometimes, he wants to hate her for seeing too much. For seeming to just... _take it_, when she should be ranting and raving and throwing punches.

Daryl pulls up short as his gut twists at that. No, throwing punches is _his_ thing. He remembers how Carol flinched but stood her ground that night when he nearly put a fist to her face.

He hates himself for that night. Hates that he nearly fell back into the way he was raised. Hates that for a moment she probably saw that shitheel Ed in his place. Daryl knows he ain't nothing to be looked up to, but he's not like Ed. Never like him.

Carol is a caregiver, through and through. Unfortunately, this world ain't made for caregivers and the soft hearted.

For a sick moment, Daryl feels his heart pull down toward his stomach when he thinks that Carol – this woman he's grudgingly decided to keep an eye on – probably wouldn't make it. Just like her daughter (and would that be his fault too?). She just didn't have the harshness this world requires for survival.

Daryl swallows thickly, trying to get his thoughts back in the moment and not the future, when he ears Carol move again. She's twitching, face scrunched up in a frown and her fists clenched around the ends of his jacket.

He's just about to shrug it off, when Carol suddenly flops onto her back, head tossing to the side and a whine escapes her lips. It isn't loud, but it still makes Daryl's heart do a triple thump in his chest.

_Nightmare_, he thinks. Wouldn't be the first time he's heard her in the night. Usually it was tears though – there's another memory he doesn't want to revisit: Carol's sobs spurring him out into the night to look for the girl, to do something, anything.

But she's really starting to get worked up now, arms jerking and fingers clenching in the soft grass bed and she's muttering now. Daryl's already moving around the stump to her side when she scares the shit out of him by going rigid, hands in cramped fists and agony on her face.

"Shit," Daryl mutters, crouching next to her. At this rate she'll end up having a fit and alerting every walker within a mile to them.

His hands hover over her shoulders, unsure whether to touch or grab or shake her, any of which could have a very bad result. Carol's still frozen, eyes shut and tears leaking out of the corners. Her mouth is slightly open and she's making the most horrible _rasping_ sound. Daryl's never seen anything like it and it's starting to fucking scare him.

"Hey," he says, low and soft. Her brows move a little but that's all.

She lets out one long shuddering, rasping breath. A deep breath in, tense and trembling, only to let it out the same way. Then Daryl gets it. His own breath catches in his throat when he realizes what's actually happening – Carol is _screaming_.

Silent screams.

Whatever she's seeing behind those twitching eyelids is fucking terrifying and her silent, breathy screams are scaring Daryl a lot more than they should, and he's more afraid that she'll let out a real holler soon, alerting every undead bastard for miles.

He drops his crossbow to the side and kneels beside his unconscious charge. He takes hold of both her shoulders, gentle but firm and gives her one good shake.

"_Carol_," he says with command in his tone.

She comes awake with a violent shudder and just before she can squeal, he slaps a filthy hand over her mouth.

"Hush, woman. You're gonna literally wake the dead."

Carol's thin frame trembles under his hands for a moment before he realizes he better turn her loose. Only he can't bring himself to let go fully, keeping on hand on her upper arm to steady her as she gets her wits about her.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," Carol whispers, running a hand over her face and wincing as her tears burn the scrapes and scratches.

Daryl backs off, gathers his weapon, sits on his haunches and watches her. "Just a nightmare," he tries, though he knows it must'a been a hellova lot more than that.

Carol pulls his jacket around her shoulders and shakes herself, as if trying to shed the last of the dream like shaking off drops of rain.

"Yeah. Just a nightmare," she says. When her eyes met his, Daryl badly wants to ask what she saw that had her screaming with no voice, but he'd be willing to bet it had something to do with Sophia.

Carol looks so lost that for a moment, he wants to comfort her. Tell her that they'll get back to the farm in a few hours and everything will be alright. He's seen Rick offer that kind of support to the others and he envies him that ability to set people at ease with words and touches.

But Daryl Dixon isn't built for comforting; he'd probably fuck it all up anyway. So he moves back to the fire, stoking it and preparing to settle in, when he hears Carol shift.

She's looking off into the dark as she says, "Uhm…do you think, maybe I could sit a little closer? Just for a little while."

Daryl squints at her over the fire, trying to decide what she's talking about. When Carol motions to the patch of grass next to him, he gets it. She's still scared and for some reason she thinks he's safe.

Daryl chews his lip for a moment, thinks about how fucking terrified he was when that cougar attacked, how his gut tied itself in knots when he thought Carol had gone missing days before and then relents.

Better to have her close, he thinks.

"Sure," he says.

Carol scoots closer, dragging her backpack with her and curls up next to his leg. "It's warmer over here anyway," she offers, when Daryl feels himself tense like she's about to bite him or something.

A little smile pulls at her lips as she snuggles in, their bodies just shy of touching but he an feel her every breath as though he were pressed against her. That thought makes something wild and unexpected flare in Daryl's gut that shocks him.

So he grabs his trusty bow and quiver, lays them over his chest and settles back against the old stump; comfortable but still able to see and hear.

He watches Carol's breathing even out again in sleep and when she starts to twitch, Daryl figures fuck his pride and his boundaries and reaches out to take her hand. Her fingers squeeze his a little in her sleep, like she's thanking him, and damn.

Maybe he's the soft-hearted one here. Whatever. At least she'll sleep quietly while she can.

* * *

><p>Daryl's pissed. Eyes open not two minutes before and he knows he's alone at the makeshift camp. He'd gotten too comfortable, too lazy in his guard and fallen asleep. He's lucky he didn't wake up with another walker chewing on his foot.<p>

During the night he'd let the fire die down and a chill set in. And maybe he let himself get a little closer to Carol. She had his jacket, dammit and it was cold! And maybe he let her curl into him a little, because conserving body heat is survival 101, isn't it?

And if it felt really, _really_ fucking good, well, he's not going to tell anyone.

Except that Carol could have been dragged off or wandered off or any number of shitty outcomes just because feeling someone else next to him, trusting him enough to sleep next to him lulled him into fucking dream land and now he is _pissed_.

"Shit, shit shit," Daryl is on his feet, crossbow hefted into his shoulder as he spins in place trying to see if Carol is near.

He can't yell for her, not loudly anyway. He hisses her name a few times, hoping to God she just stepped behind a near bush to take a leak.

The clearing where they set up camp is covered in a low, fine mist; the early morning chill damp and bone rattling. Everything has a grey-blue tint and Daryl can't see very far. He doesn't hear anything either, which is both good and very bad.

But Daryl does know that Carol has her knife on her and that she walked away – he can see her footprints – so she wasn't dragged off. Doesn't make him feel much better but it's something.

He sets out after her and doesn't get more than about fifty feet from their camp when he hears a scream that turns his blood to ice and makes his heart lurch into this throat.

Daryl had dragged the cougar carcass off to a scrape of elderberry bushes, far enough from where they camped so that if it attracted walkers, they wouldn't pay he and Carol any mind. What he sees when he runs out of the tree line is Carol backing away from two gnarly looking walkers.

What was left of an old woman, skin pulled too tight over bone and half her bottom jaw missing is stumbling into Carol. Daryl pulls up short long enough to take aim as Carol manages to push the old bitch back with her foot.

The _thwunk_ of his bolt leaving the bow and hitting the old woman's skull echoes throughout the clearing. Daryl goes into automatic destroying mode; swings his bow onto his back while marching up to the second walker – this one male – who is munching on the dead cat.

Without blinking, Daryl sinks his bowie knife into the soft, rotten skull of what used to be some dude in a Hawaiian shirt.

He's just about to round on Carol, ask her what the ever-loving fuck she was thinking wandering off _again_, or getting near this carcass, when he hears a gasp. He really doesn't have to turn around to know another walker has appeared and he doesn't have time to load another bolt.

But his knife is jammed in bone and eye socket and Daryl can't seem to yank it out.

Spitting out a curse, Daryl tries to look over his shoulder while using his foot to push the walker's skull off his knife, but he can't see much and all he hears is Carol's labored breathing.

"Daryl!"

Just as his knife pulls free of bone and brain matter, Daryl hears a scuffle and a yell and oh god he now doesn't _want_ to turn around. He doesn't think he could take seeing her bit…not Carol.

But he does turn and nearly falls on his ass when he sees Carol climbing off the prone body of a walker, her small knife and hand covered in gore. She stumbles backward, as if she can't believe what she's done and you could've knocked Daryl over with a feather at this point too.

Once he's sure nothing else is coming out of the woods, Daryl sheathes his knife and marches into Carol's face. He's fucking seething.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You got a death wish or somethin'?"

Carol steps back before she thinks about it, wiping fear-sweat and a little blood off her brow. "I wasn't wandering off, Daryl," she says, after a moment of trying to catch her breath.

"Well then what the fuck where you doin', huh? Because this sure as hell looks like wandering off to me."

"I needed," Carol stops and swallows, trying to gauge his anger because he's pacing back and forth now; can't stand still. "I wanted to try to get some meat off of him." She gestures to the cougar.

Daryl squints at her like she's speaking Chinese. "What?"

"We need the meat, Daryl. Even if all we can do is dry it as jerky, we need any protein we can get. Game is getting scarce, you said it yourself," she says.

Daryl snorts because he really can't speak right now, let alone refute her logic on the game situation. He stomps over to the old woman walker and yanks his bolt out, swipes it over his pants leg and takes a look at the one that Carol took out. It's a young man, or was at one point.

She saved his life. How about that.

But that didn't dampen his anger and frustration as he swings his arms out to encompass the bloodbath around them.

"So you think getting a little meat off a sick, skinny cat is worth this risk? What you couldn't be bothered to wake me up and let me know?" he yells.

Carol hugs herself; he doesn't know if she's cold or scared or both. "I'm sorry. You fell asleep and I woke up and took watch. At daylight I figured I could find the cougar again and thought I could cut something we could use off him before the walkers got at it. But I was too late."

"Besides," she mutters, almost too low to hear. "If something did attack it would have been just me. They wouldn't have come for you."

Daryl's pretty sure his head might have exploded or he had a fucking stroke because for a moment, all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and all he sees is red.

"So that's it, huh? You wanna give up? Opt out?" He panting like he's run a marathon and he can't slow his heart and he can't understand and wants to grab her, shake her and make her see. _Just see_!

"You think because she's gone you got nothing to live for?" It's the first time in months that he's mentioned the little girl he spent so long trying to find and her name burns his soul.

Carol goes ghostly pale. "What? That's not–"

"Not what? It sure seems that way to me. You keep taking risks because you think no one will care if you just don't come back one day." Daryl leans in close, stares straight into those blue-grey eyes and bares his teeth to get the point across. "It's stupid, Carol."

"I'm not doing this on purpose," Carol says, finally getting some of her fire back. "I'm doing what's good for the group. And if that puts my life at risk than so be it." She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. Daryl doesn't think he's ever seen her look more beautiful.

"I want to live. But I don't care if I die trying to help others, Daryl."

"Well maybe _I_ care."

The words are out of his mouth before they even form in his brain. Daryl stands there, still glaring but his insides just ran for the hills and Carol just looks at him with those knowing eyes and fuck he can't handle this shit.

They both jump like scalded cats when they hear Rick bellowing from the tree line.

"Daryl! Carol! You alright?" Rick comes running, that stupidly huge pistol in hand and Andrea hot on his heels.

"Yeah," Daryl croaks out, taking a step back from Carol's space to adjust his crossbow. "Fine."

"Oh my god," Andrea says, looking at the bloody aftermath of their morning's excursion. "What happened?" She goes to Carol and hugs her.

Carol seems to appreciate the physical show of comfort and Daryl can't help but throw a sneer Andrea's way. His head still hurts from where that bitch shot him, anyway.

Rick surveys the damage while Daryl explains the situation. Then he nods, gives Daryl a tentative pat on the shoulder and says, "When you didn't come back yesterday we figured, if you were okay, you made camp somewhere. Saw the smoke from your fire when we started out at first light. We would have come yesterday evening but Shane made a point about it getting dark earlier. That we should wait."

"Good ol' Shane," Daryl scoffs, lining up another bolt. He knows good and well Shane would love to see his ass disappear into the woods and never come back. Probably wouldn't mind having a couple less mouths to take Rick's side in augments.

Andrea looks at Carol's knife and at the dead walker. "You did this?" She asks Carol.

Carol runs a hand over Daryl's jacket that she's still wearing and looks over at him. "It would have gotten Daryl."

Daryl spares a moment to feel like a shit for chewing her out when she did save his life, proving that she can protect herself (and him) after all. But he doesn't regret everything he said. Some things needed to be known.

Daryl doesn't want to think about the uncertain future ahead if Carol isn't in it. He's just so damn tired of losing people.

They head back to the farm and Daryl endures the relieved coddling from Lori, Beth and Maggie. Glenn, Dale, T-Dog and Hershel tell him he was lucky. The kid just wants to know how big the cougar was.

Shane gives him the stink eye over the cooking fire and Daryl swears he can hear him muttering that he and Carol had no business sneaking off together in the first place. Daryl really wishes he'd say it out loud, so he could introduce Shane's stupid face to his fist.

Carol is quiet and appreciative of the worry as Hershel and Maggie tend her scrapes from the thorns, and she seems to keep Daryl in her periphery at all times. He does the same for her.

At dinner they all take their seats around the fire as the food is passed out. This time, Hershel and his girls actually come out and sit at the old picnic table, trading stories.

Carol has picked a spot off to the side, huddled around her plate. She'd given him his jacket back a while before, and Daryl languished in the scent of her the whole day. Part of him wants to scrub the damn thing as a hard as he can, but a larger part of him wants to lie down and fucking bury his face in her scent for hours.

How pathetic is that?

Despite his turmoil over the state of his jacket, he thinks Carol looks chilled in nothing but her wool cardigan. So he sidles up behind her, shrugs out of his jack again and drapes it over her shoulders. Carol doesn't look up, but he can see the smile on her face, warmed by firelight.

After he gets his grub, Daryl ambles back over to Carol and plops down next to her, so close that his right side is flush with her left. Knee to knee, elbow to elbow.

Daryl's fucking starving so he digs in; unaware of the looks he's getting from those around the fire. Rick and T-Dog are talking with Lori chiming in here and there. Glenn and Maggie have stolen a moment a few feet away.

Hershel is nearest and he's the one who catches Daryl's eyes when he finally looks up from his plate. Carol snuggles in a little closer to Daryl's shoulder.

Daryl glances at the woman next to him who's serenely picking at her food and watching the others talk, a soft smile still on her face. A moment later and Daryl is leaning a little into her warmth, but he's pretty sure it's not noticeable.

He looks back to Hershel and the old man gives him a nod and an all-too-knowing smile.

Daryl just rolls his eyes and mumbles "Shut up," under his breath.

**END**

* * *

><p><strong>Please Read and Review!<br>**


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